alley I’d seen yet. A heavy archway of weeping stones framed the dismal shadows beyond. “Ruby Lane” was slashed over the arch in paint too red to be blood. An evil chuckle echoed from the unaccountably thick fog and rolled down the glistening cobblestones.
“How picturesque.”
“They do it this way on purpose.” Keen shrugged as if she was shaking a spider off her shoulder. “To keep the wrong sort of people out.”
“And whom do they consider ‘the wrong sort of people’?”
“The right sort of people.”
“Then let’s get this over with quickly.” I pressed bravely into the gloom.
We walked side-by-side, and I could barely see her. The mist smelled of magic, and I wondered what sort of hag spent her days conjuring a cloud to hide the dark goings-on of Ruby Lane.
“Do you know where you’re going, then?” Keen asked me.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
We passed shivering bundles of clothing that must have been people. We passed small fires that stunk of magic and bones. We passed an old woman selling roasted bludrats on sticks, a sickening steam rising from their charred fur and twitching legs. We held our breath by the Dragon’s Lair,where heady lavender smoke swirled along the ground, beckoning with the mystery of the East. We heard the mournful strains of an out-of-tune harpsichord drunkenly plunking from the Green Fairy’s Sister, the sort of place where the absinthe most likely harbored something worse than wormwood. A two-headed dog followed us briefly, sniffing at my hand and growling before I kicked at it and hissed. It was altogether the most unpleasant place I’d ever seen, outside of my own palace’s dungeon.
The next shop window stopped me in my tracks, though. Behind the clouded glass, hanging on a stark white wall and arrayed on a shelf, were a variety of monstrosities. Body parts, shiny skulls, deformed fetuses floating in large jars, a stuffed child covered in lizard scales, and a woman’s head mounted on a plaque. Keen kept walking, but I stopped to stare. That woman—I knew her. Correction: had known.
She wasn’t labeled. And I could tell that the eyes were made of glass, because the color was a little off. But the hair was real and arranged with care, and the earbobs dangling from her ears had surely been borrowed from my mother’s boudoir without permission.
“See something you need?” Keen shivered and turned to the next shop.
I put a glove to the ice-cold glass. “Olgha,” I said stiffly. “My sister.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she murmured. I didn’t know who that was, and I had expected something snottier from her, but it didn’t come.
I was mesmerized by the horror, unable to stop staring at features I’d known all my life. From Olgha’s much-bemoaned, overly large nose, inherited straight from ourfather, to the scar under her right eye that I’d made with my own talons during a squabble over a bit of ribbon, she was trapped forever, mounted like the bludstags and wolf heads on the walls of the palace library. The only thing missing was the other sister. Me.
“You still want to do this?” Keen’s voice was pitched low, one foot poised to run.
“I must. Now more than ever.”
I steeled myself. Keen handed me a crusty handkerchief, and I wiped the place where tears would have been and settled the dark glasses more firmly on my button nose, which I had fortunately inherited from my mother or possibly, as many said, handsome King Charles of Sveden. Thanks to my unusually light hair, there had been much talk regarding my birth exactly nine months after my parents’ diplomatic mission to Stockhelm. But of course, anyone caught calling me anything other than the true daughter of Tsar Nikolas would have been tortured to death. For the moment, staring through the window, it was a blessing to look nothing like my sister.
I stepped through the door with a meekness I didn’t feel and pretended to fidget as I’d seen frightened humans do. I didn’t
“How picturesque.”
“They do it this way on purpose.” Keen shrugged as if she was shaking a spider off her shoulder. “To keep the wrong sort of people out.”
“And whom do they consider ‘the wrong sort of people’?”
“The right sort of people.”
“Then let’s get this over with quickly.” I pressed bravely into the gloom.
We walked side-by-side, and I could barely see her. The mist smelled of magic, and I wondered what sort of hag spent her days conjuring a cloud to hide the dark goings-on of Ruby Lane.
“Do you know where you’re going, then?” Keen asked me.
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
We passed shivering bundles of clothing that must have been people. We passed small fires that stunk of magic and bones. We passed an old woman selling roasted bludrats on sticks, a sickening steam rising from their charred fur and twitching legs. We held our breath by the Dragon’s Lair,where heady lavender smoke swirled along the ground, beckoning with the mystery of the East. We heard the mournful strains of an out-of-tune harpsichord drunkenly plunking from the Green Fairy’s Sister, the sort of place where the absinthe most likely harbored something worse than wormwood. A two-headed dog followed us briefly, sniffing at my hand and growling before I kicked at it and hissed. It was altogether the most unpleasant place I’d ever seen, outside of my own palace’s dungeon.
The next shop window stopped me in my tracks, though. Behind the clouded glass, hanging on a stark white wall and arrayed on a shelf, were a variety of monstrosities. Body parts, shiny skulls, deformed fetuses floating in large jars, a stuffed child covered in lizard scales, and a woman’s head mounted on a plaque. Keen kept walking, but I stopped to stare. That woman—I knew her. Correction: had known.
She wasn’t labeled. And I could tell that the eyes were made of glass, because the color was a little off. But the hair was real and arranged with care, and the earbobs dangling from her ears had surely been borrowed from my mother’s boudoir without permission.
“See something you need?” Keen shivered and turned to the next shop.
I put a glove to the ice-cold glass. “Olgha,” I said stiffly. “My sister.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she murmured. I didn’t know who that was, and I had expected something snottier from her, but it didn’t come.
I was mesmerized by the horror, unable to stop staring at features I’d known all my life. From Olgha’s much-bemoaned, overly large nose, inherited straight from ourfather, to the scar under her right eye that I’d made with my own talons during a squabble over a bit of ribbon, she was trapped forever, mounted like the bludstags and wolf heads on the walls of the palace library. The only thing missing was the other sister. Me.
“You still want to do this?” Keen’s voice was pitched low, one foot poised to run.
“I must. Now more than ever.”
I steeled myself. Keen handed me a crusty handkerchief, and I wiped the place where tears would have been and settled the dark glasses more firmly on my button nose, which I had fortunately inherited from my mother or possibly, as many said, handsome King Charles of Sveden. Thanks to my unusually light hair, there had been much talk regarding my birth exactly nine months after my parents’ diplomatic mission to Stockhelm. But of course, anyone caught calling me anything other than the true daughter of Tsar Nikolas would have been tortured to death. For the moment, staring through the window, it was a blessing to look nothing like my sister.
I stepped through the door with a meekness I didn’t feel and pretended to fidget as I’d seen frightened humans do. I didn’t
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